Through the Looking Glass
by damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: Draco has problems. He's a Death Eater, Malfoy Manor is in the hands of the Order of the Phoenix, and the war doesn't seem to be dwindling down any time soon. Also, he's invisible. And he knows just who to blame for that.
1. The Mirror

**AN: This story was originally written for Round 5 of the Dramione Remix (2014). The original couple is Jack Frost/Elsa. **

**My deepest gratitude goes to my beta, Raistlin, who always puts up with the games of chicken I tend to play with deadlines. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Thank you also to Cali, my always cheerleader.**

* * *

Hermione dove into the empty room, closing the heavy door behind her. Unable to see anything past her own panic, the witch dug her nails into her palms, trying to focus on something other than her own powerful need to run. The sounds of the fighting echoed in the stone halls of the castle and inside her head, until she was unable to tell whether danger was close or far away.

Forcing her brain to cooperate, she limped away from the door and slumped down in a corner before ripping the fabric of her left leg with shaking hands. Ignoring the dark blood oozing from the ugly gash, she searched blindly for the corked vial she had thought to store away before leaving for yet another skirmish that would prove too bloody, too costly and utterly pointless. Theirs was a war of stalemates and Pyrrhic victories, and she had long ago disabused herself of the notion that that would change anytime soon.

Without giving herself time to think, Hermione poured the contents of the vial over the wound, shuddering as the clear potion scorched the torn flesh. She kicked a nearby chair with her other leg, struggling to keep from crying out. When the sharp pain finally turned into a dull ache, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes for a minute. She knew she needed to get up and go back out there, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She was so bloody tired of the whole thing. She almost envied Lavender, killed at the beginning of the war. She almost envied Fred.

Dragging herself away from the tempting lure of self-pity, Hermione made to get up, but just then the creaking of the door warned her of the arrival of a couple of Death Eaters. She slowly lowered herself back down to the floor, casting a quick Disillusionment Charm on herself and praying the Death Eaters would not look too closely in her direction.

After looking around for a few seconds, one of the masked men left the room, but the other remained behind. With his back turned to her, he slowly walked up to the mirror in the corner. Hermione had not noticed it before, but she would not have cared if she had. The Mirror of Erised held nothing but heartbreak, and she had enough ghosts haunting her as it was.

Oblivious to her presence, the Death Eater pulled down his hood and removed his mask, staring at the mirror. Hermione could not see Malfoy's expression from where she was, but she had no trouble recognising him. He might despise her and everything she stood for — and she couldn't claim to like him any better — but they had grown up together. She would've known him anywhere.

She wondered what he saw when he looked in the mirror. Did he see a version of the hell he and people like him had plunged their world into? Was this the great new world he envisioned?

Wrapping her fingers tighter around the wand, Hermione jumped to her feet, firing a stun. The spell was perfectly aimed, but it never hit its target. Malfoy spun around just in time, shielding it with ease.

"Too slow, Granger," he sneered. "That's the kind of piss-poor reflexes that keep getting you lot killed."

"You should hardly be gloating, Malfoy," she shot back. "I must say, I'm really enjoying living at Malfoy Manor. Such style, such comfort. How could you ever give it up?"

The man paled noticeably at that. "Enjoy it while you can, Granger," he growled. "I'll smoke you rabble out of there if I have to burn it over your heads."

"Well, you'll be happy to know it's quite flammable, as the west wing can attest."

He smirked, a dangerous, cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "How kind of you to share that with me. Shall I share something with you? Would you like to know how your precious Ronald died?"

"Shut your mouth, Malfoy," she warned.

"No? You don't want to hear how he squealed like a pig? How he wet his pants? How he cried for his mummy?"

Hermione cast two curses in quick succession, but they both bounced off his shields. She spun out of the way just in time to avoid his returning fire, and his hexes failed to hit her by inches. They still destroyed a wooden chest and a table in the corner where she was, spraying her with splinters.

"Poor little Granger, always more brains than talent. The only reason you've stayed alive this long is that people keep getting themselves killed trying to keep you alive."

"Shut your filthy mouth, Malfoy." She was too worked up for any fine aiming, and her curse was so off course that it hit neither Malfoy nor his shield, landing instead on the Mirror of Erised. The mirror did not absorb the spell, reflecting it instead towards the witch and wizard. Neither of them expected to be hit from that angle, and the curse hit them at full blast. Hermione looked down surprised, too shocked to feel anything.

After that, there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Invisible

Mr Johnson didn't see the falling snow until he was covered in it, cursing loudly as he tried to brush it off his hair and shoulders. Adding insult to injury, a snow ball thrown by an impish girl at one of her friends got unexpectedly and rather inexplicably blown off course, landing on the man's head with a thud. For a moment none of the children moved, but in less than a second they were all rolling with laughter, too young to be tactful and too amused to be discreet.

Failing to see the humour in the situation, a livid Mr Johnson started after the kids, but had taken no more than a couple of steps when, stepping on a hidden patch of ice, he slipped and fell, landing heavily on his back. That only served to increase the riotous hilarity of the little devils, the oldest of which made a somewhat loud, rather clever and more than a little insolent remark about the downsides of gravity.

Mr Johnson was rescued by the sudden arrival of Mrs Branson — an old widow who for forty years had been the local school's head teacher, and who having failed to be intimated by the shenanigans of the parents, was not about to be defeated by the good-natured lawlessness of their off-spring.

Scattering the little hooligans with a sharp word, she proceeded to lecture Mr Johnson — one of her many former students — on the dual importance of watching one's step and keeping one's temper.

Draco considered the merits of dropping another pile of snow on Mrs Branson, but his audience was gone, and suddenly it seemed like too much effort for him to bother. His interest vanished, he started walking down the street, making little effort to avoid the other passers-by. A young redhead jumped startled to the side when he accidentally bumped his shoulder against her. Seeing no one in her immediate vicinity, she shrugged and resumed her journey.

That soured his already down-spiralling mood, and Draco quickened his step, suddenly eager to escape the Muggle-filled town. He usually liked winter, never more so than in recent years. In a world where no one could see him, his footsteps on the snow seemed to him unmistakable proof that he was there, that he existed, that somewhere in the world there was evidence of him. Sometimes even he doubted it. If there was no one who could see or hear him, did he exist anywhere other than inside his own mind? That was a question for philosophers and scholars, and he was neither, but he had nothing but time and too little to fill it with.

Granger's spell had been both imaginative and cruel, and Draco would never have thought that that stuck-up Mudblood had the kind of power it took to pull off such an elaborate curse. She had thrown him back in time at least thirty years, making it so that if there was no one who could see him, there was also no one who could remember or miss him. Time passed — excruciatingly slowly, it seemed to him — but it did not touch him. He did not age and he did not change, equal to what he had been when the curse hit.

It had been seven years already, and he sometimes wondered if seven would turn to seventy, seven hundred, seven thousand, and he would continue there, stuck in that empty sameness, existing but not, alive but erased, worse than a ghost and unable to either die or properly live. Those were thoughts that haunted him, and he made a conscious effort to keep them at bay, for that way lay only madness.

Exiting the town, he chose a path at random across a snow-covered field. He walked unhurriedly, playing absent-mindedly with the snow around him. His snow tornadoes — some bigger, some smaller, all of them deeply upsetting to the single horse on the other side of the fence — caught and reflected the light of the winter sun.

It had taken him a very long time to learn how to channel his powers without a wand, something he at times thought impossible. In the early days he had desperately tried to replace his Hawthorn wand, ransacking Ollivanders more than once in search of a wand that would yield to him. No wand had responded to his touch, as if they could feel he was a cursed creature — one step in the world, one step out — so he had had to make do. There were still things he couldn't do, spells he couldn't cast, but he had an eternity to get better.

Trying to shake off the darkness he felt hovering over him, Draco walked into the forest ahead. He had no idea where he was, but as he did not have any particular destination in mind, that didn't worry him overmuch. He had been walking for a couple of hours when he came to a sudden halt at the edge of a small clearing, stunned by the sight of a little girl building a snow castle. She couldn't be more than six or seven. Her hands were red from the cold, and she looked poised and focused as she explained the proceedings to the doll next to her.

"And this is called a moat, to defend the castle from attackers. A bigger tower? You're right, we do need a bigger tower." The snow changed and shifted, commanded by the wave of her small hand, and the tower in question grew a few inches. "We also need a villain," she declared primly. Concentrating on the pile of snow a few feet away, the small witch's magic sculpted away at the snow until a creature that was half-way between a pig and a Hippogriff emerged. "We'll call him Sir Sharptooth. Now you must defend the castle, Matilda," she ordered the doll. The raggedy thing floated across the air until she was face to face with the ice monster and proceeded to smack him over the head with all her doll might, spraying snow everywhere.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to think. No child had that command of magic, certainly not without a wand, but that was not what had shaken him. He knew the girl. He had never known Granger that young, but she didn't look much different than she had at eleven, when he had seen her for the first time in the Hogwarts Express. She had the same unruly hair, the same large front teeth, the same big-headed demeanour that she would never entirely outgrow. But it couldn't be. The timeline was wrong. It was too early; she wouldn't have been born yet. And yet it was her, he was sure of it.

He thought back to that night at Hogwarts, to their fight in the tower. He could still see her casting the spell. And it hadn't hit him, not at first. It hit the mirror and got reflected back to him. Back to them? That stupid bitch had cursed them both. The hilarity of that engulfed him and he burst out laughing, a hint of hysteria in his voice. It was about thirty years too early and he was invisible and she was a child, and it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of.

Granger lost all colour and jumped to her feet, her snow constructions flattened in a flurry of snow and ice. "I wasn't doing anything," she said, looking guilty.

He fell silent immediately, walking out of the tree line. "You can see me." It wasn't a question; she was looking straight at him.

"Obviously," she said, her arms tightening around her doll as she took a step back.

"Not so smart after all, were you, Granger?" he snarled.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she muttered before turning to leave. But Draco was bigger and faster, and he had no trouble cutting her escape.

"Oh no, you don't." She yelped when he grabbed her arm, but he didn't let go. "You and I have much to talk about."

But just then the ground started shaking, accompanied by the wild lashing of the branches of nearby trees. Draco let go of her arm, trying to protect his head against the sudden onslaught of ice and snow coming at him from all directions. There was so much water and ice in his face that he never saw the branch that hit him, sending him flying through the air. The impact with the ground drove all the air from his lungs and it took him a moment to regain his bearings.

Hermione had taken a few steps towards him when he fell, looking as if she were about to cry.

"I'm sorry," she said, biting her lip. "I didn't meant to… I'm so sorry." And with that she turned and left, breaking into a run. Draco let her go. There was snow everywhere; he'd have no trouble following her trail back to wherever she had come from.

He surveyed the clearing around him. The snow was littered with twigs and snapped branches, bits of bark and icicles. It was not unusual for children to lose control of their magic — it was certainly more common than them having enough command of it to built elaborate castles made of ice — but he had never seen it to this extent. Spotting the forgotten doll a few feet away, he picked it up before following after Granger.


	3. Granger

Hermione made herself slow down before reaching the cottage and took the time to calm down before going in. Mrs Watson — indulgent to the point of neglect — was not the most attentive of caretakers, but Hermione was still anxious to avoid questions. She brushed the snow from her hair and coat, and looked in her pockets for her gloves. It was then that she realised she had forgotten Matilda.

She looked back at the trees behind her. She wanted to go back for her doll; dusk was fast approaching, and Matilda was bound to be scared, all alone in the woods. But Hermione was loath to face the man again. She shouldn't have been in the forest at all. She certainly shouldn't have been using her powers. She had promised daddy she wouldn't. And now she had hurt the stranger, maybe seriously, and everyone would know and everyone would hate her.

Biting back a sob, Hermione squared her shoulders and made for the door of the cottage. She was seven now, too old for dolls. She needed to stop acting like a child. She needed to be good, or at least better. She absolutely had to.

Mrs Watson was busying herself over the stove when Hermione walked in. She spared the girl nary a glance, saying only, "Go wash your hands, child. Dinner is almost ready."

Hermione muttered a "Yes, ma'am" and did as she was bid. Before rejoining Mrs Watson in the kitchen, she stopped by the bookcase set in a corner of the landing. She glanced longingly at _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_, but having vowed to eschew all childish things, she picked a copy of _Working with Fractions_ instead.

Knowing that Mrs Watson's "almost ready" meant she still had at least another half hour to go before they would eat, Hermione sat at the kitchen table with her book. She was labouring over a particularly complicated problem when the kitchen door flew open and the stranger walked in. For a flustered moment, Hermione had no reaction other than to stare in horror at the man, who was certainly coming to complain, to accuse her, to make her sin known.

Seemingly oblivious to the girl's discomfiture or the man's presence, Mrs Watson walked to the door and closed it with the air of studied casualness she usually reserved for the inexplicable events that tended to occur in Hermione's vicinity.

The stranger flashed her a wolfish grin and winked. "She can't see me," he said casually, looking around the cramped kitchen. As if to illustrate the point, the man leaned back against the counter right next to the busy woman, who carried on with her stirring as if nothing remarkable were happening right there in her kitchen.

Hermione had been too distressed to notice before, but she could now see that the man was wearing a strange outfit the likes of which she had never seen outside of picture books. Beneath a large cloak, he seemed to be wearing some sort of dark robes. A pointy hat would not go amiss with such an outfit. With a flourish, the man removed Matilda from one of his pockets.

"I think you forgot this." He set the doll on the counter, right next to Mrs Watson. The old woman glanced distractedly at the doll before actually noticing it.

"Where did this come from?" She picked up Matilda up and set it on the table. "Hermione, don't leave your toys lying around."

Hermione stared at the doll as if she was seeing it for the first time. What a strange day. There was an invisible man in her kitchen. An invisible man she had almost killed with a tree. And he had brought her doll back. She had questions, many questions. But while Mrs Watson couldn't see him, she could certainly see her, and the woman already thought Hermione something of an odd duck without her starting talking to herself.

Grabbing the doll, Hermione got up, motioning for him to follow her, but Mrs Watson was having none of that. While the woman's interest in Hermione's welfare did not really extend beyond ensuring the child was properly fed, she took that one duty extremely seriously.

"Hermione Jean Granger, sit back down in that chair, young lady. And put that book away; I'm going to start serving dinner."

Hermione wolfed down her food as fast as she could before finally managing to escape to her bedroom, followed by the smirking stranger. She closed the door behind them, safe in the knowledge that Mrs Watson would not think to check up on her.

* * *

There were no other toys in the bedroom apart from the doll now sitting on the bed, watching them with button eyes and a frozen smile. Granger's eyes fell briefly on the photograph on her nightstand, which depicted a smiling couple with a baby. It was the only photo in the room. Turning to him, she held out her small hand.

"Hermione Granger," she said in a clear voice. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You really don't know me, do you?" Hers had been the better part of the bargain. She couldn't miss a life she couldn't remember.

"I think you must be my imaginary friend," she said with a pensive look.

"The devil I am," Draco sneered.

"You shouldn't swear, you know? And you must be. No one can see you except me. Therefore, you must be my imaginary friend."

Merlin forbid. It was bad enough when he thought he was a figment of his own imagination. The notion that he might be a figment of hers was just too disturbing for words.

"I'm not your imaginary friend, Granger," he scoffed. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

"Pleasure to meet you, Draco. You should call me Hermione."

"I will call you Granger."

"You're very argumentative for an imaginary friend."

"I'm not your bloody imaginary friend."

"You shouldn't use bad words."

"I'll use whatever words I damn well please."

More annoyed than he'd care to admit at being tutted by a seven-year-old, Draco tried hard to suppress the urge to strangle the little pest. Partly because it was her spell, and if there was a way out of there, she would lead him to it. Partly because for the first time in seven years he existed to someone other than himself, and he was not so much a fool that he'd willingly ruin it.

Suddenly self-conscious, Hermione averted her eyes before saying in a small voice, "I'm very sorry I almost killed you."

Which time? "You're four feet tall; you couldn't kill me if you tried."

"I hurt people," she said with a shrug. "I hurt you. Even if I'm small."

Damn Gryffindors and their delusions of grandeur. With a wave of his hand, Draco summoned a flock of birds that flew in circles around the startled girl. Big white clouds gathered along the ceiling and it started snowing inside the bedroom, a soft wet snow that quickly covered the floor and furniture. In a surge of inspiration, the wizard transfigured the ugly doll into a rabbit, which immediately started hopping around the room. With a horrified gasp, Hermione reached for the rabbit, knocking over a lamp in her haste.

"Turn her back," she demanded, holding the struggling bunny.

"Say please."

"Now!" A couple of books flew from the bookcase, hitting the opposing wall. The clouds darkened and thunder echoed inside the small room.

"You always did have a temper, Granger." Snapping his fingers, Draco restored order to the room. In the blink of an eye all the snow was gone, as were the canaries and the rabbit. "As you see, you're not the only one with tricks up your sleeve. You couldn't have hurt me if you tried."

But the little girl no longer looked remorseful, she looked furious. "Never do something like that in the house again. Not ever."

"Or what?" he dared.

"Or you'll be sorry," she promised with the arrogant petulance of the very young. There was nothing conciliatory in the smile he shot her, but Hermione opted to ignore his silent mockery. "You can't stay," she said firmly, though not unkindly. "I can't have an imaginary friend, you see. It's quite impossible."

Draco rolled his eyes. "For the tenth time, I'm not your imaginary friend, Granger."

"Be that as it may, you have to go," she said. "Please."

"No, I don't think I will." He pulled the chair close to desk and sat down, crossing his hands behind his head.

Grabbing the edge of his cloak, she pulled with all her might. "You can't stay!"

"Poor little Granger," he smirked. "How exactly do you intend to make me leave? I'm bigger than you, stronger and more powerful than you, and no one else can see me."

Letting go of the cloak, Hermione glared at Draco. "I will ignore you," she said venomously. "I'll act as if you were not here. See how well you like that!"

And with that she stomped out of the room, banging the door shut behind her. Draco burst out laughing. He had been invisible for seven years. Seven years without anyone so much as glancing at him. Seven years in which he almost forgot what his own voice sounded like, because he had so little occasion to use it. She could try all she liked, but the stubborn efforts of a child could never hope to compare to the real thing.

* * *

What followed was a week-long tug o' war between Hermione's industrious efforts to pretend he didn't exist, and Draco's amused attempts to thwart her. It wasn't a difficult task. Despite her best efforts, Hermione couldn't help looking at him whenever he came into the room, and it took remarkably little effort to draw a smile out of the little girl with the occasional snide remark about the unsuspecting Mrs Watson.

He soon discovered, however, that there was no surer way to get a response out of the witch than by using magic. He had only to levitate a glass or transfigure a centrepiece into a porcupine for Hermione's studied indifference to turn into a mixture of cold fury and panic. In her haste to undo whatever it was he was doing, she invariably made it worse, and Mrs Watson spent the entire week cleaning up broken china, replacing light bulbs and putting out the occasional fire. The old woman had long ago conditioned herself to either ignore or rationalise the strange events that often happened around her charge, but even her determined self-delusion was starting to wear thin.

There was no great master plan behind Draco's amused pestering of the witch, and he did it for no other reason than because it entertained him. After seven years with no human contact, he was easily amused. He would have no doubt dealt with a grown up Hermione very differently, but he had long ago learnt to take reality as it was, rather than as he wished it to be.

One evening, Hermione greeted him in the bedroom with a tray of milk and cookies.

"What is this?" he asked, more than a little suspicious.

"Peace offering," she said.

He picked up one of the cookies and eyed it carefully, turning it between his fingers. "Is it poisoned?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and took one of the cookies, biting into it. Leaving the tray on the desk, next to Draco, she hopped on the bed.

"I want a truce," she said.

"No."

"Don't be mean," she pouted. "You can't just say no."

"I just did." Draco picked up another cookie, dunking it in the glass of milk before taking a bite.

"Please."

He took a sip of milk. "No."

"I brought you cookies."

"Thanks for the cookies. No."

The glass exploded in Draco's hand, covering him in milk and glass.

"Fine, be like that," Hermione spat, rolling on the bed so she was facing away from him.

"Gryffindor tempers," he muttered, cleaning up the mess with a wave of his hand.

In the morning, Hermione had gone back to ignoring him. The fidgety witch spent the better part of an hour trying to braid her hair, something she managed with moderate success, and then spent the rest of the morning running from window to window until even the usually restrained Mrs Watson lost her temper and told the girl to sit down already.

It wasn't until after lunch that Draco realised the cause for all the fuss, when a blue car drove up to the house.

"They're here, they're here," Hermione said excitedly, jumping up and down.

"Settle down, child," Mrs Watson said, getting the door.

Pushing past the old woman, Hermione ran to the outstretched arms of the man that had just got out of the car.

"You're so big, darling," he said with a smile. "Are you quite sure you are my daughter? I don't believe you can be; you're far too tall."

Hermione's smile faltered when she looked past her father at the empty car.

"Where's mum?"

"She couldn't come, poppet." Taking the girl's hand, Mr Granger started walking towards the house. "Your sister has a cold, so mummy had to stay with her." Unlike Mrs Watson, Hermione's father had a keen eye for all the unexplainable events whose likely explanation tended to be his daughter, and he did not miss the sudden onset of heavy snowfall that quickly covered half the garden in a thick white mantle. "Now, now Hermione," he said with a frown. "You're almost a big girl. That won't do, dearest, that won't do at all."

Draco had always thought he was rather good at riling up Granger — this one or any other — but compared to Mr Granger, he was practically a soothing influence. The clinking of glasses inside the cupboards greeted the party as they re-entered the house. Seemingly determined to ignore the ruckus, Mrs Watson asked Mr Granger rather loudly whether he cared for some tea. The younger man's response was drowned by the sudden clanging of cutlery.

"Maybe you should've offered yourself some cookies, Granger," Draco sneered, moving to a corner of the kitchen. He might be invisible, but incorporeal he was not, and four was a veritable crowd in the cramped cottage. There was no fight in the look the witch gave him, just misery too big for one so little. He had seen that look in Granger's face once before, at Malfoy Manor — in a much bigger room, surrounded by a very different crowd.

At Mrs Watson's advice, Hermione led her father to her bedroom, leaving the old woman to prepare tea in peace and quiet. Draco followed them upstairs. There was not a book in sight that did not fulfil some academic purpose. Hermione had put away anything that might be considered a frivolous pursuit, including Matilda, who was nowhere to be seen.

The witch seemed to relax somewhat in her bedroom, and no outlandish events followed them upstairs. And if Mr Granger noticed how the portrait on Hermione's nightstand kept hovering slightly above the dark wooden top, he did not think to mention it. For two hours, the man quizzed his daughter on her lesson plan, taking turns praising her progress and impressing on her the importance of pouring all her extra energy into her schoolwork, instead of wasting it on "other things."

Draco briefly considered smacking Mr Granger over the head with all the might of "other things", but in a rare bout of conscience he kept quiet.

Despite the man's insufferable demeanour and Muggle-like narrowness of mind, Hermione was inconsolable when it was time for him to leave, and kept coming up with things to delay his departure. One more lesson. One more maths problem. One more passage in Latin or Greek, or something else equally ridiculous that no seven-year-old should have been studying to begin with.

In the end, no amount of stratagems could put off the inevitable, and Mr Granger got up to leave. Hugging the little girl, he kissed her forehead and bid her be good and obey Mrs Watson. He was almost at the bedroom door when Hermione spoke.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, poppet?" he said, turning towards her.

"When can I go home?" she asked in a small voice.

With a sad look, Mr Granger put down his briefcase and sat down on the bed, pulling Hermione to his lap.

"You know it's not possible, baby," he said, leaning his head against hers. "Not now. Not yet. These powers you have, they're too dangerous. You wouldn't want to hurt your sister, would you?"

With a trembling lip, Hermione shook her head, unable to speak.

"Maybe when you're a little older it will be easier," he continued. "But you need to stop doing these things, darling." He picked up the floating picture and set it back down on the nightstand. "Mummy and I know it's not easy and that it's not your fault, but you need to make an effort to learn to control it, love."

Hermione nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Reaching under her pillow, she took out an old battered tome. "This is for Anna," she said, handing the book to her dad.

Mr Granger smiled, turning the book. "Mummy used to read this to you when you were little."

"I thought maybe she could read it to Anna. And maybe someday, I can read it to Anna too."

"I think she would like that very much indeed, my darling."

Hermione's composure lasted until the blue car had driven out of view, but not a second more. Mrs Watson reached for the sobbing child, but a sudden discharge of energy made her recoil, startled. Before the old woman could react, Hermione ran off to her room.

Draco followed at a more sedate pace, wishing he was still at an age when blowing up a garden in a fit of temper was an adequate way to deal with frustration. No Malfoy had ever harboured any sympathies for the plight of the Muggle-born, but he could not help but feel unreasonably angry at the inveterate idiot who thought magic was something one could outgrow.

Hermione had locked her door, but as someone who had never quite grown out of his own magical tendencies, he had no trouble getting in. The witch was lying on the bed, her back against the door. She did not turn when he walked in, and Draco doubted she had even heard him over all the crying. Opening the chest at the foot of bed, he fished out Matilda and placed it next to the inconsolable witch. Hermione reached for the doll, hiding her face against it.

There was more than sympathy in his gesture. For some time now, he had been considering what his next move should be. Seven-year-old Hermione was more than an amusement. She was a key. He had tried long and hard to break the curse, with no luck, but few curses were truly unbreakable. This one was Granger's handiwork, and it stood to reason that she could succeed where he had failed. He had simply not known how to get her to cooperate. Not until now.


	4. A Great Big Adventure

The downstairs clock had just struck eight when Hermione woke up. The curtains were not thick enough to block out the light that came uninvited into the bedroom, making it impossible for the little girl to go back to sleep. The witch sat up, pushing away the blanket someone had thought to cover her with.

She tried to ignore the pestering part of her brain that kept going over the events of the previous day. So maybe mummy hadn't come, and daddy hadn't taken her home, and she hadn't managed the simple task of pretending to be normal for a few hours, but staying in bed all day crying about it would solve nothing. Onward and upward, like Mrs Watson always said.

"Time to get up, Matilda." Fishing the doll from under the blanket, Hermione sat her down against the wall. It was only when she made to get up herself that she noticed the tray of milk and cookies on the nightstand. There was a small card against the glass that read "peace offering."

The little girl smiled at the small kindness, suddenly feeling extremely guilty over how coldly she had treated Draco. It was not his fault that her path to self-improvement included disposing of all the strange things that marked her out as different. And while Hermione didn't have much of a point of comparison, she couldn't help but suspect that not many children had imaginary friends quite like him.

But be that as it may, it was almost Christmas, and no one should be alone for Christmas. Getting ready in record time, Hermione grabbed a handful of cookies and ran downstairs. Mrs Watson called after her to sit down and have breakfast, but the girl ignored her and hurried outside.

* * *

Draco was not surprised when the little girl sat down on the frozen ground next to him, handing him a cookie. There was no great skill involved in manipulating Gryffindors, even miniature ones, and he knew Hermione would've been touched by the gesture.

"Don't sit too close, Granger," he scorned. "I fear for my life." So maybe nice wasn't exactly his style.

"Funny," she said dryly, but her smile faltered and the witch looked away, busying herself with another cookie.

Draco searched for the right words to say what he wanted to say. Not that he thought he couldn't outsmart a seven-year-old, but Granger had always been stubborn, and he didn't want her digging in her heels for no better reason than to spite him.

"There is a place," he started, "where they can help people like you."

Hermione stopped fiddling with the snow. "Help how?"

"They can make the things you do go away." How was that for a carrot on a stick?

"They can make me normal?"

"Sure, a regular Muggle, in and out," Draco spat, surprising himself with that small flare of temper. She was seven, and he was invisible, and her definition of normal was the very least of his problems. Hermione did not seem to notice his outburst, however.

"Can they really fix me?" she asked with an eagerness that did nothing to dispel his aggravation at her choice of words.

"Yes," he said simply, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"But why would they help me?"

"They live for helping little girls in distress," he said dryly.

"But why would _you_ help me?"

"What kind of imaginary friend would I be if I didn't?"

"You said you weren't my imaginary friend."

"I lied."

"Are you lying now?"

"Maybe."

There was so much of the older Hermione in the way the little girl rolled her eyes that it was all Draco could do to keep his expression neutral. Seven years in hell, and she was to blame. He could find no comfort in her own penance, nor any pity. He would use the witch to get out of that accursed place, and then he'd make it his life's mission to show her what true suffering was like.

"If we leave tomorrow, we can be there by month's end," he said with a smile that revealed nothing of his mood. Malfoys were nothing if not patient. He'd have his revenge in good time.

Hermione's smile turned to a frown. "I can't go," she said, all her enthusiasm gone. "Mummy and daddy wouldn't like it. I can't go."

He wondered what had happened to the real Mr and Mrs Granger during the war. He had seen them often enough before, in King's Cross — mundane, middle class and Muggle-like, beaming with pride at their Mudblood daughter.

"Your mum and dad want a normal child," he said. "A child they can love and be proud of, and show off to their neighbours. Like all parents." He paused for a second before adding, "Or maybe they don't care that much anymore." The trick was to press just hard enough. "You have a sister, right?"

Hermione's eyes filled with tears, but she didn't look away. "You're wrong," she said.

"If you say so," he said with a shrug. And then he waited.

"Can you really take me there?" she asked, after a few minutes of silence.

Draco suppressed a grin, assuring the little girl that not only could he take her there, he would make sure she got home safely afterwards.

* * *

Mrs Watson was still softly snoring when Draco and Hermione tip-toed past her bedroom door the next morning. The little girl had packed a small backpack with all the things she might need in her journey to this magical place named Hogwarts. Her meagre possessions included a change of clothes, her doll Matilda, and a single book — her much-read copy of _A Little Princess_.

She would've taken a few more books — beloved friends and constant childhood companions — but Draco had threatened to dump her on the side of the road if she so much as hinted she needed help carrying her bag, so she had thought better of it. It was to be a quick journey after all, maybe only a few days. She would be back before any of the books could miss her.

Not wanting Mrs Watson to worry on her account, she left a note by the bread box, where the old woman was bound to see it. The carefully-drawn letters read: "Dear Mrs Watson, I am gone on a great, big adventure. Please don't tell mum and dad. I will be sure to tell you all about it on my return. Love, Hermione."

Hermione had never been outside so early, and the familiar trees seemed oddly threatening in the half-light of dawn. The sky was clear, but the cold winter air chilled her to the bone despite her heavy coat. It wasn't long, however, before the brisk pace imposed by Draco warmed her up.

"Where is Hogwarts, anyway?" she asked, her voice too loud in the emptiness of the early morning.

"Scotland," Draco said absent-mindedly.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. "Scotland?" Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears. "We can't walk to Scotland."

Draco turned towards her, rolling his eyes. "Why the devil not?"

"It's too far." Hermione tried to picture a map of Great Britain in her head. "We can't walk that far. We need to take a train. Or a bus. Or a plane!"

"A seven-year-old travelling on her own," he sneered. "I'm sure that would draw no one's attention. We're walking, Granger. Get moving."

He turned away without another word. It was a few seconds before she followed, but it didn't occur to her not to. The decision had been made, and she would follow through with it despite her misgivings. She thought of the picture she had tucked away between the pages of her book, the same picture that had been on her nightstand before — her mum and dad, and the baby sister she so desperately wanted to get to know. She wanted to be in that picture too. She hoped one day she would be. And so she followed, because not to would be to give up on the one thing she wanted more than anything else.

* * *

Draco quickly realised the flaw in his plan. For all that Hermione tried to keep up, her short legs only moved so fast. She trailed behind him without complaint — or not much, at any rate — and tried to keep pace, but in a day they had covered less than a third of the ground he could have covered by himself. At that rate another seven years would go by before they reached Hogwarts.

He cursed his luck, his lack of options, and her. Most of all her. He cursed the little girl who couldn't walk farther than her legs would take her, and he cursed the older witch that had cast him into a world where he couldn't even use his wand. He could have Apparated them at Hogsmeade in less time than it took to say Hogwarts, but he dared not try it without a wand. He didn't care for the idea of spending the rest of eternity splinched. He lived in enough of a limbo as it was.

He eyed the sleeping girl. Despite having curled up into a ball and being so close to the fire that he half-feared she might fall in, she was still shaking from the cold. He got up with a sigh and placed his cloak over her. Not that he particularly cared whether or not she froze, but she was no use to him dead.

Much as it galled him to admit it, she was right. They couldn't walk to Scotland. They'd be lucky to make it to London, and he wasn't sure he wanted to go into the capital at all. He had planned to avoid civilisation as much as possible; Muggles were very particular about children wandering unattended.

No. What he needed was a broom, and if London was not an option, he knew just the place to get it.

They got an early start the next day and he pushed them mercilessly, setting a harder pace than the day before. Wiltshire was not terribly far away — it was certainly much closer than Scotland — but he didn't want to lose any more time.

Hermione was tired, hungry and cold, and in no frame of mind to be bullied by Draco's dictatorial inclinations. Early morning bickering turned to half-day argument and to mid-afternoon shouting match.

"You're being mean!" she yelled, her face red from the cold.

"And you're being insufferable!" he shouted back. "If I knew you'd be this much of a handful, I'd have left you where you were. I'd rather deal with a herd of Hippogriffs than have to put up with you one more second."

Hermione gasped. "Take that back!"

"Like you even know what a Hippogriff is," he scorned.

"I do too."

"You wouldn't know a Hippogriff if it bit you in the face."

"You're mean, mean, mean!" She dropped her backpack and crossed her arms, turning away from him.

"Fine, stay there. You can keep shouting at no one like a crazy person. Maybe a farmer will walk by and have you locked up, 'cause that's what they do to crazy people." Turning away from her, Draco started walking, but just then a considerably-sized pile of snow fell on him out of nowhere, almost knocking him down. Absent any trees nearby, he had no trouble knowing who to blame. "Granger," he growled, "you bloody well better learn to control your powers before I wring your neck."

"Oh, I _meant_ to do that," she snapped back mutinously.

Without thinking, he cast a barrage of snow in her direction, but the witch shielded it on instinct. The force of his spell forced her back a few steps, but the snow didn't touch her. She looked so offended that he couldn't help but laugh at her outrage. The momentary distraction cost him dearly, as the witch went on the offensive, hitting him suddenly with snow whirlwinds and an army of snowballs.

Seeming to have taken him at his earlier word that she couldn't really hurt him, Hermione was intent on proving that she damn well could, and she didn't hold back. More amused than annoyed, Draco fended off the girl's attacks, sending enough snow back her way to put the little monkey in her place.

Draco had the better aim, but Hermione had the bigger target, and in the end that proved the superior advantage. The wizard fell dramatically to his knees.

"I yield," he yelled, his hands held high.

The little girl marched up to him victoriously. "Do you declare me the winner?" she asked grandly.

"I declare you a fool." He grabbed her hands and dragged her down to the ground, shoving a handful of snow on her face.

Hermione squealed with laughter, turning her face away. Without giving her time to retaliate, Draco fell on his back, trying to regain his breath.

"Cheat," she complained, equally out of breath and with a smile on her voice. "Since we're down here already, we could make snow angels." Without waiting for a reply, she started moving her arms and legs, side to side.

"Because you aren't properly soaked through yet?" he mocked.

"The cold doesn't bother me."

"Pneumonia might. Up." Getting on his feet, Draco looked around for her discarded backpack. They looked a fine pair, the two of them — dishevelled, soaked wet and half frozen.

Hermione's smile faltered when she realised he meant to resume their journey, but Draco was tired of arguing. It would soon be dark anyway, so they might as well find some place to dry up.

"Don't even start," he warned, putting her bag over his shoulder. "We can't make camp out in the open; the fire would be seen." He held out a hand to her. "We won't go far."

Meeting him half-way, Hermione took his hand and followed without further objections. They walked in silence for several minutes, finally stopping on the side of a hill. The geography of the spot should protect them from the wind, as well as from any prying eyes.

It didn't, however, protect them from the cold. They huddled together close to the small fire Draco had conjured, and the wizard draped his cape around them both. The enchanted fabric had kept him alive in nights when he should have frozen, when no one ventured outside who could stay indoors, and it kept them warm enough now. By way of thanks, Hermione offered him half of her cereal bar, the last food either of them owned in the world.

It wasn't long before the witch was softly snoring, her head leaning against his arm. Sleep eluded him, however. Even if he could sneak them into Hogwarts, even if he could find the mirror, then what? He didn't know the spell she had cast, and even if the real Hermione could have undone it, what use was this little girl who wanted nothing more than to forget magic even existed? He was looking for a miracle and he knew better than to expect one. Magic had its limits, and his luck had ran out long before that night at Hogwarts. But if the choice was to swim or drown, he would swim. Even if he never made it to shore.

The next morning, he steered them towards the nearest village in search of food. The delay irked him, but not so much as Hermione's quarrelsome disposition. The hungry witch seemed intent on picking a fight, and he had half a mind to indulge her. Not that an empty stomach did much to improve his mood either.

He was particularly aggravated because he could have very easily prevented their current predicament by helping himself to Mrs Watson's generous pantry. He had long ago learnt the value of some well-placed Undetectable Extension Charms, and he could have carried enough supplies to get them through their journey.

But Draco had not thought about it. In seven years he had got used to walking in and out of everywhere, grabbing an apple if he felt peckish, smuggling a plate of bacon and eggs if it caught his fancy, going hungry for a day or two if that seemed preferable to being around people who looked past him, spoke over him and went on with their day in spite of him. Simply put, he had not accounted for the fact that young children — much like puppies and owls — required regular feeding and someone to provide it for them.

Finding the village was easy, the hard part was convincing Hermione that she ought to stay in the field nearby, where it was unlikely that some well-intentioned villager might see her and wonder why a child was walking around by herself. Well-intentioned people were often simply troublesome, and well-intentioned Muggles were the worst of the lot. With or without magic, Draco did not want to borrow trouble. And if he was feeling slightly petty over her inability to live off the air and stop bothering him, he kept that information to himself.

* * *

Hermione was bored. She was bored and hungry, and annoyed at Draco for leaving her alone for what felt like hours. It was all very well for him to say it was safer for her to stay out of sight, but he just didn't understand what it was like to be this bored, with nothing to do and no one to talk to. Never mind that she had spent many an afternoon by herself, with no one but Matilda for company, feeling perfectly content. Now she was bored, and her doll was meagre comfort. He didn't need to be so difficult. No one would have noticed her and she would have stayed out of trouble.

The cottage where she had lived for so long with Mrs Watson was isolated enough that no one ever came but the mailman once a week, and Mike from the shop, with their regular order of groceries. There were farms nearby, but no children, and there was no one who cared to take any interest in Old Widow Watson's young charge.

Now here she was, so close to a place where people lived — more people than in all the farms close to home — and maybe children around her age, and that pig-headed git wouldn't let her go near them. Well, that was just not to be borne. He was not her father or her brother — she was not entirely convinced that he was not just some figment of her imagination — and he didn't get to tell her what to do. She would go to the village, she would look around, and maybe she would even find him and make sure he got some of the patties she liked.

Filled with determination, Hermione tossed her book into her backpack, grabbed Matilda from her perch on a tree trunk, and set off in the direction Draco had gone. It wasn't very long before she saw houses, and not much longer until she could no longer see trees. There were people around - people in shops, people in cars, people in a hurry and people strolling by — and all too soon she began attracting curious glances. Hermione was starting to wonder if it hadn't been folly after all, when she spotted a group of children in the square ahead. Three older boys and a girl were focused on a game of marbles, while a few feet away, a group of younger children skipped over squares drawn on the ground.

Picking out a shy-looking ginger girl as the less intimidating member of the party, Hermione casually stopped near her, watching the other children play. The younger girl glanced her way and smiled uncertainly, but she positively beamed when her eyes fell on the doll in Hermione's arms.

"This is Matilda," Hermione said, wishing she knew more about talking to other children. She didn't have much practice, but she would need to learn so she could be a good sister to Anna. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

"She's Gail," said an older girl, stopping the game. "She doesn't talk much. I'm Josie, that's Karim, Liv, Sarah and Tommy. Them lot, "she pointed at the older group, "well, never mind them. Do you want to play?"

Hermione did very much want to play, but for all that she was proficient in Latin, German and Greek, knew all the Kings and Queens of England all the way back to the Conquest, and could name the capitals of all the countries in the Northern Hemisphere, she was woefully ignorant of such crucially important things as the rules of hopscotch.

Handing Matilda over to small Gail for safekeeping, Hermione listened attentively to Josie's rather sparse explanation. Taking Karim's suggestion that there was no better way to learn than to do, she jumped into it, trying to pay attention to the enthusiastic suggestions of Sarah, Karim and Tommy, all of them eager to share their expertise with this remarkably ignorant girl.

When they grew tired of hopscotch, they endeavoured to teach Hermione how to play cat's cradle, followed by several rounds of Simon says, and by an exciting game of hide and seek. By the end of it, Hermione was out of breath, her cheeks flushed and her hair all over the place, but she was having the best time. It was enough to make her forget how hungry she was.

Just then, nearby church bells alerted her to the lateness of the hour. Startled, she looked at her watch. Draco would be furious. She had been there for almost two hours. He was probably looking for her. Or maybe he had gone already, and left her all alone. She was in so much trouble.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," she said, reaching for her backpack. She held her hand out for Matilda, but Gail frowned, hugging the doll tighter against her.

"No," the little girl said.

"Gail, give her the doll," Karim ordered.

"No," the little girl insisted, turning away from them.

"You give it right now." Hermione grabbed the little girl's shoulder and spun her around. She tried to pry the doll away from Gail, who started crying loudly, repeating the one word Hermione had heard her say all day, "No."

One of the big boys who had been playing marbles jumped to his feet and shoved Hermione away from Gail.

"Oi, you leave my sister alone," he ordered. At ten or eleven, he towered over Hermione, but she was not to be intimidated. Matilda was her only friend in the world, and she was not about to let her remain a prisoner of this unconscionably rude girl.

"She has my doll," Hermione said, trying again to make a grab at it. Gail shrieked, hiding behind her brother, who grasped Hermione's coat, pulling her face closer to his.

"Peter—" Josie said, but the boy cut her off.

"You stay out of this, Bennet. That's her doll now." His breath was warm against Hermione's face and the girl squirmed, trying to get away. "You'll leave here and not bother my sister again."

He was older than her, bigger than her and stronger than her, but that was her doll and she was in the right, and she refused to be bullied by such horrid people.

"It's my doll," she repeated, rage overtaking fear and common sense, "and she will give it back right now."

Peter laughed. "Or what, you midget?" he dared.

The surge of energy pushed him back with such force that he didn't even have time to react before hitting the stone fountain a few feet away. He fell to the ground like a broken toy, unmoving and silent.

Gail, who had fallen to the ground herself, caught on the path of Hermione's spell, screamed at the sight of her brother and ran to him, sobbing, leaving the doll behind. Blood tainted the snow around Peter's head and many of the other children ran to him, some of them crying, others looking around for an adult, for anyone who could help. Some of the children didn't move. They stared horrified at the strange little girl who had hurt their friend without lifting a finger.

Their horror was a diluted version of Hermione's. She couldn't help but stare at Peter's broken body. What had she done? How could she have… She was a monster. Her parents were right; she was dangerous and unpredictable, and no one was safe around her. Movement in the corner of her eye made her look up at Josie, who flinched and shrunk back.

She should've listened to Draco. He had told her to stay put, and she hadn't, and now someone was dead or dying and it was her fault, and why couldn't she just have done as she was told. Strangling a sob, Hermione turned and ran.

* * *

** AN: Thank you for reading this far! Hope you enjoyed the chapter :)**

**"I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?" - This is a direct quote from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.**


	5. Malfoy Manor

Draco was fuming. He had told her to stay put — he had told her very clearly to stay put — and now the little devil was nowhere to be found. He had searched the fields, he had even walked to the nearby road to check whether she'd got herself run over, only to conclude that in true Gryffindor spirit, she had done the one thing he had told her not to do and gone to the village.

He didn't like children. He had never liked children. They were demanding, needy, bothersome and not very interesting. The only thing he disliked more than children were Gryffindors and Muggle-borns, so it had to be some sort of cosmic joke that he had ended up as a babysitter to Hermione Granger of all people.

With an aggravated sigh, he went back the way he had come. The village was not very large, and it didn't take him overly long to come across the circus that had developed in the main square. There were children crying, adults talking in hushed voices, and people running in and out of nearby stores, carrying blankets, pails of water and what looked like a very old first-aid kit. They flocked to a small boy fallen on the ground. A man wearing a green apron ran out of a shop and shouted that the ambulance was on its way.

Draco did not need to hear the snippets of conversation that spoke of "unexplainable" events, of things quite "impossible", "almost like magic", to know who had caused all that ruckus. Bending down, he picked up Matilda and hid the doll in one of his pockets.

Hermione was nowhere to be seen. He needed to find the girl, but first he needed to clean up that mess. Ordinarily, whenever there were such incidents, the Ministry was quick to deal with it. In fact, someone Hermione's age using magic at all should've been enough to trigger all manner of alarms over at the Ministry, but no one had ever showed up at the Grangers' front step educating them on how to handle a witch for a child — and fining them for failing to do so properly.

Draco elbowed and pushed his way past the crowd gathered around the boy. What was one more unexplainable event on top of everything else? The child's face was drained of all colour, in stark contrast with the blood-stained snow around him. His eyes were wide open but dry, and they kept shifting from one face to the next. A crying woman kept telling him that everything was going to be okay, that help was coming and just not to move. Help was on its way, he just had to be brave a little while longer.

"There, there, buddy," muttered the wizard. "I know how it feels. I pissed her off once too."

There was not much he could do for the boy without a wand — healing spells were a delicate kind of magic — but he did what he could. The child slowly regained some colour, and little by little his breathing became easier. It was no miracle cure, and a doctor would probably still have plenty to do and say, but as far as Draco could tell, the boy would be fine.

After that, he quickly Obliviated everyone in the square. It would be a village of very confused people for a few hours, but they'd get over it.

His work done, he hurried away in search of Hermione. It was not easy to find someone who was a) small, and b) didn't want to be found. In the end, it took a location spell to get an idea of where to look. He found her in a field on the other side of the village — she had either got turned around or purposefully gone the other way.

The spell led him to the field, but it was the sobbing that gave her away. He headed for the single tree ahead — a huge oak that had probably been old already when the Founders were young — and he circled around it, finding her in a hollow in the trunk. He couldn't see her face, hidden by a mass of unruly hair, but there was no mistaking the convulsed, heart-breaking sobs that shook her whole body.

"He's fine, Granger," he said, kneeling next to her. "He's fine and they won't remember a thing. Any of them. I saw to it."

The girl kept on crying, giving no sign that she had heard him. Draco reached out to the small form huddled inside the tree and stroke her hair. "Come out here," he asked. "I'm sure there are spiders in there."

She replied something unintelligible but did not budge, so he tried again. "Please, Hermione. Come out of there."

For a moment he thought she wouldn't, but just then the little girl jumped out of the tree hollow, quickly closing the space between them and hiding her face in his chest. He put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. He didn't know what to do or say to make her feel better, so he just held her while she cried, stroking her hair and saying soothing nothings.

When her crying abated, she tried to tell him what had happened. She told him about the village, about the children, and about Peter. Her voice broke when she got to that part, and the last thing he could understand her saying was the word "monster."

Draco had seen actual monsters — terrifying, powerful, with no conscience to speak of — and Granger did not even begin to compare. Not this Granger, not even the real one. Pushing Hermione gently away so she was looking at him, he wiped her tears with his fingers.

"He's going to be fine," he repeated. "It was an accident and he's going to be fine." The little girl looked away. "I brought Matilda," he said, fishing the doll from his pocket.

"I don't want it," Hermione said, looking back at him. "You can toss it away." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and grabbed her backpack from the tree hollow.

Draco put the doll away and searched for something to eat instead. "Here," he said, handing the little girl a sandwich.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care," he said. "You're eating anyway. I don't want you collapsing on the way."

After much pestering, pushing and prodding, Hermione finally ate the whole thing, and they resumed their journey. There were clouds gathering above them, and Draco hoped it wouldn't snow. The silence between them stretched until the wizard was ready to scream. He would've normally welcomed the peace and quiet, but now it bothered him more than he could say. Mostly, it bothered him that he cared. She was the enemy and he did not forget it, but neither did he forget the boy who had once thought himself a monster too.

It wasn't long before it started snowing, but they kept on walking. Night fell and they kept on walking. It bothered him that she didn't say anything. It was dark and cold, and they had been walking all day, but she did not utter a single word to complain, to call him a slave driver, to ask him to stop.

He did stop eventually, too tired himself. They made camp by the side of a frozen stream, and they were up again with the sun the next morning. It was a beautiful day. The landscape was buried under a mantle of snow, and everything seemed clean and bright, but neither the clear sky nor the winter wonderland around them were enough to dispel the little black cloud following the sombre witch.

Draco frowned. There were things he couldn't do, obstacles he couldn't overcome and odds he couldn't win against, but he'd be damned if he couldn't get a smile out of a seven-year-old. With a wave of his hand, he turned a nearby rock into a rabbit. The little creature hopped around uncertainly, and Draco turned the rock next to it into another rabbit.

Hermione did not notice at first, too focused on the path ahead, but Draco kept transfiguring rocks and fallen branches, until they were surrounded by hopping critters.

"Oi, stop that!" Hermione said.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently.

"You know what." The distressed witch stepped to the side, trying to avoid tripping over the furry creatures. "You shouldn't do that. It's dangerous."

"Bunnies? Yes, they're terrifying, aren't they?"

"You know what I mean." Hermione frowned, her hands curled up into fists on either side of her.

"You like ducks better?" He turned one of the rabbits into a grown up duck, followed by five yellow ducklings. McGonagall would've been proud. "Or maybe a hedgehog."

"Draco…"

"Maybe I should make a bear," he suggested.

"A bear would eat us," she shrieked.

"Well, it might eat me. You don't look nearly as appetising."

That got a smile out of the little girl, and Draco felt as if he had just caught a Snitch.

"You're not funny," she said, still smiling.

"I'm exceedingly funny," he teased, before adding in a more serious tone, "Magic is just a tool. It does what you tell it to. It can blow up a house or it can make a duck. It's just a tool."

Hermione's smile faltered and she looked away, serious and unconvinced. Never one to accept defeat, Draco turned her hand up and placed a single pebble on her palm, muttering the spell under his breath. Hermione looked back just in time to see it turn into a small hedgehog, and Draco was rewarded by her beaming smile

"Can you make a lion?" she asked eagerly, carefully petting the hedgehog.

Figures. "What would a lion be doing in Southern England?"

"You said you could make a bear."

"Well, bears are all right."

"There are no bears in England."

"Of course there are bears in England."

"Are not."

"Are too."

There was no peace and quiet to be had after that, but that suited Draco just fine.

They made good time that day, or maybe he was simply getting used to the excruciatingly slow pace of the witch.

"Draco, I'm tired," she complained, late in the afternoon.

"Well, get untired. We're not stopping yet." They were close enough that they could make it to their destination that day, if they didn't tarry.

"But my legs hurt," she said with a pout. "Carry me."

"I'm not carrying you."

"But I'm so tired."

"I've been walking the same as you, and you don't see me complaining."

"Your legs are bigger."

"You talk too much; that's why you're tired."

"You're being mean," she complained, stomping her foot on the ground.

Merlin rid him of difficult children. Draco stopped and turned to face the belligerent girl, who had crossed her arms and was glaring at him as if wishing the ground would swallow him whole for being so contrary. He rolled his eyes. He was never having kids.

"Fine," he spat, getting on his knees. "Hop on."

Hermione cheered and ran to him, standing behind the wizard and putting her arms around his neck.

"You better not be heavy, Granger, or I'm cutting down on your food," he said, getting up.

"See, you like me," she gloated.

"I most certainly don't."

"You think I'm nice."

"I think you're a pest."

She giggled at that, before adding in a softer voice, "I think you're nice too."

Draco smiled but did not reply. Dusk was falling and it was becoming difficult to see the path ahead. He didn't need to, however. He knew where he was. He knew the fields and the trees, as well as the paths and where they led. When they crossed into Malfoy lands, he felt the wards touching his skin, and the soft pop when they were finally through. The wards didn't stop them, and he had not expected them to. He was a Malfoy and this was his home.

The grounds were extensive, and he had been walking for almost ten minutes when he finally saw the house. He stopped where he stood, unable to move any farther. In seven years he hadn't been there once. Not once. He hadn't wanted to see his home as he remembered it, familiar and whole. In the life he had left behind, half the manor was nothing but a charred ruin, and the part left standing was used as headquarters by the Order of the Phoenix. They had taken down their ancient wards and replaced them with their own. Nine centuries of Malfoys had lived in that house, and in one night that accursed lot had cast them out.

The manor was full of light, all the windows shining like fireflies in the dark. There was movement and people arriving on the main path. Some sort of event. It was unexpected, but not worrying. He was invisible, after all. One person or one hundred, it made no difference to him. And he wouldn't have taken Hermione inside even if everything had been quiet. The wards had let her in because she was with him, but Malfoy Manor was no place for someone like her.

Carefully not to drop her, he put the sleeping girl down. "Hermione," he called, "wake up."

"Are we there, yet?" asked the sleepy girl.

"Yes. Listen, I have to go in there." He pointed at the house in the distance. "I need you to wait here for me, all right?"

"I want to go too. I will be really quiet," she promised, jumping to her feet.

He sighed, wishing he had simply let her sleep. "You can't come. It wouldn't be safe for you in there, and there are too many people around. You need to stay here. I won't be very long."

The witch grabbed his cloak, as if to stop him from getting away. "But it's dark…" She looked so small that for half a second he considered taking her with him. It was the thought of a moment and then it was gone. Taking her with him would be folly, and dangerous folly at that.

He reached inside his pocket and took out Matilda, handing her to the witch. "She'll keep you company while I'm gone, how's that?"

Hermione took the doll, hugging her against her. "You won't be long?" she asked in a small voice.

"I won't, I promise. Stay out of sight until I'm back."

* * *

Hermione sat against a tree, glad of something solid against her back. Everything was dark all around, and the forest was alive with sounds — crickets and wind on trees, and the sounds of things that only come out at night. She kept repeating "He'll be right back," under her breath, trying to slow down the hurried beating of her heart. She desperately wanted to go after Draco, but she didn't budge. She was too scared to move, even if she had forgot what had happened the last time he had told her to stay put and she hadn't.

She all but froze when she heard voices coming her way. Their shape was easy to make out against the bright backdrop of the manor, with its fairy lights and bright windows. Three people. No, four. Not knowing what to do, Hermione got to her feet and waited, ready to run if needed. They stopped just short of the tree line, and the witch relaxed.

"Hand over the flask, Rabastan," said a male voice.

"That's no way to talk to your elders, Lucius."

"Come on," said the third man. "Don't be a spoilsport, Rab."

"Damn kids, stealing my liquor."

"You're one year older than us, Rabastan."

"It's a mental age thing, Avery."

Hermione moved closer to them, trying to get a better look. The three men were younger than she had thought at first, and the fourth person was a woman — svelte, very blond, her hair pinned up elegantly. She hugged her naked arms for warmth, turning her nose at the offered flask.

"Are you cold, darling?" Lucius put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. Just then the moon moved from behind a cloud, illuminating the grounds below, and Hermione gasped at the sight of the blond man. He looked just like Draco — a younger, more polished version of Draco.

She didn't mean to, but she must've made a sound, because they turned their heads in her direction.

"There's someone there," Rabastan said, holding something in his hand. "Lumus."

Hermione took a step back the moment the light fell on her, but it was too late.

"Levicorpus," Avery shouted.

The witch shrieked as an invisible force pulled her up in the air, and towards the four people.

"Let me down," Hermione cried, kicking her feet in the air and holding Matilda tight against her. "Right now."

"It's just a little girl," said the woman, coming forward. "Put her down."

"Well, hold on," Avery said, moving closer to Hermione. "For all we know she's just some little Muggle girl who wandered in. Look at her clothes. We could've some fun yet."

"Not likely," Lucius said with a bored expression that was all too familiar. "There are wards around the place, Avery; we don't just let anyone wander in."

"She's probably with someone from the party," said the woman before repeating, "Put her down."

"Not yet. Really, look at the way she's dressed. Does she look like she came for a party?" Hermione shrunk when he got closer. "What are you, girl? Not Muggle, then what? Half-blood? Mudblood, maybe?" He made to touch her, but a surge of energy made him snatch his hand back. "Why, you filthy little—" He pulled his hand up as if to strike her and Hermione closed her eyes shut, terrified, but the blow never got a chance to land.

The woman yelled "Flipendo," and Avery flew back through the air, landing heavily on the ground. Released from his spell, Hermione fell, managing to somehow land on her feet. Someone's hand grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back, and Hermione found herself behind the woman.

Avery scrambled to his feet, wand outstretch towards them. "Malfoy, you need to get your girlfriend on a shorter leash," he growled.

"And you need to learn some manners, Avery," the woman said without raising her voice.

Rabastan stared amused at the scene, drinking from the flask that had meanwhile returned to his possession. Lucius looked less amused. He moved to stand between Avery and the woman, his hands in his pockets.

"You want to lower that wand, Avery," he warned, his voice dangerously low.

Still fuming, the other man did as he was told. "As you wish. What I do I care, anyway?" And with that he turned on his heels and left.

"Some people just can't hold their drink," Rabastan said with a shrug. "I better see he doesn't try to pick a fight elsewhere."

And then it was just the three of them. Hermione, the man who looked like Draco, and the woman who had come in her defence. She now knelt in front of Hermione, smiling at the girl.

"What's your name?" As Hermione remained silent, she added, "My name's Narcissa, but you may call me Cissy. And that over there, that's Lucius. No one's going to hurt you, I promise. Can you tell me your name?"

"Hermione," said the little girl in a small voice.

"Very nice to meet you, Hermione. Are you with someone from the party?"

Hermione bit her lip, holding Matilda tighter against her. She didn't know what to say or what to do. How could she explain that she was with her invisible friend, who looked just like that man? Draco had told her to stay out of sight, so why couldn't she have done just that? Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away.

"Now, now, there's no need to cry, little one," Cissy said, caressing her cheek.

"What do we do with her?" Lucius asked.

"We'll take her to your mother; she'll know what to do."

* * *

The house was alive with guests and music. Witches and wizards moved across the ballroom, some of them dancing, most of them talking. Draco caught snippets of conversation about the increasing number of incidents involving Muggles, and some talk about a fringe group bent on purging the Ministry and revolutionising Wizard society.

"Well, good for them," said a pompous old wizard, shaped like a moon. "The Ministry is rotten from the inside, has been for years. Some weeding out will do them a world of good, you mark my words."

Draco moved away. He shouldn't be in the house; he could've simply gone to one of the sheds in the back and got a broom, but he hadn't been able to resist the impulse. It was Malfoy Manor as he remembered it — grand, full of life, protected by their family name and by enchants older than the realm.

He turned to leave when his eyes fell on the witch that had just walked in. He stared at his mother as if looking at a ghost. Sixteen-year-old Narcissa had softer features than the mother he remembered, but her smile hadn't changed. She looked young and happy, untouched by the knowledge that she would one day die in that very room.

He was so taken in by the sight of her that it took him a second to see who she was with. Hermione's eyes met his across the room, and there was relief written all over her face. He glanced around, trying to think. He didn't have to look very hard to find at least half a dozen Death Eaters or would-be Death Eaters scattered around the room. Why couldn't she just have stayed out of sight like he had told her to?

He moved towards them, but someone else got there first. Abraxas Malfoy was livid, and it showed in the way he clutched his son's arm, dragging him to a relatively quiet corner of the crowded room. By then, Draco was close enough to hear what was being said.

"What is he doing here?" Abraxas asked, his voice low and strained. Draco did not know who he meant, but Lucius took his father's meaning clearly enough.

"I invited him," he said calmly, looking Abraxas in the eye.

Narcissa glanced around, her arm still on Hermione's shoulder. "Mr Malfoy, maybe it would be better if—"

"Did I not," said the older man, cutting her off, "make my position on half-bloods with delusions of grandeur perfectly clear when we last spoke on the subject?"

Lucius was saved the trouble of having to reply by the arrival of the half-blood in question, with Bellatrix Black on his arm. Draco froze, unable to move or think.

"Mr Malfoy," said the man, "how kind of you to invite me to this little soiree."

Voldemort had not yet the otherworldly appearance Draco remembered, but he already started to resemble something other than human, with skin like wax, and features oddly distorted.

"I'm glad you could come, Riddle," Abraxas replied in a tone that suggested he was anything but. "And you, Bella." Bellatrix did not smile, her fingers dug like claws into Tom Riddle's arm. Without looking at her, Voldemort gently patted her hand and she relaxed her grip.

"People call me Lord Voldemort now." The pleasant tone did not reach his blood-shot eyes.

"Do they indeed? Well, if you excuse me, I must see to my other guests." And with that, Abraxas turned and left.

"Your father is a fool, Lucius," Bellatrix spat, not bothering to keep her voice down.

"My lord, I apologise for my father's lack of manners," the younger Malfoy said with a short nod. "He's an old man, and set in his ways. He doesn't see the world as we see it."

"Worry not, Malfoy," Voldemort said, his eyes following Abraxas through the crowd. "He'll come around. They'll all come around. All in good time."

"Did you find a stray, Cissy?" Bellatrix asked her sister, pointing at Hermione. "Look at those clothes. Muggle, Muggle-born or Muggle-lover, I wonder? We could have some fun finding out. Something to liven up this downright dull party."

Bellatrix bared her teeth in a wolfish grin, but if Narcissa thought her older sister's suggestion anything other than a joke, she did not show it. Smiling pleasantly, the witch excused herself and guided Hermione away.

"Mrs Malfoy," she called to an older woman, who was engaged in a lively discussion with a purple-haired witch. "I am very sorry to bother you, but do you have a moment?"

"Certainly, dear," she said, her eyes falling immediately on the little girl. "Why don't we step outside for a moment. Excuse me, Doris."

Mrs Malfoy led the way to an empty corridor, just off the main room. She was a portly woman, with grey hair and an efficient, brisk manner.

"And what is this?" she asked, eyeing Hermione from head to toe.

Narcissa ran a reassuring hand through Hermione's hair. "Lucius and I found her outside. We think she must be with someone from the party."

"Dressed like that?" Mrs Malfoy turned her nose, her mouth a very thin line. "What's your name, child?"

"Hermione, ma'am," said the little girl.

"Hermione what? Speak up, girl."

"Lovegood," Draco said, standing beside his grandmother.

"Lovegood," Hermione echoed without looking at the wizard.

Mrs Malfoy shook her head. "Well, that explains it, doesn't it? Only that fool Aegeus to show up uninvited and with a child in tow. He's probably trying to get a scoop for that rag of his." The old woman picked up a silver bell from a nearby table and rang it.

Hermione jumped when the house-elf suddenly materialised next to her, and stared unabashedly at the strange creature.

"Dobby," Mrs Malfoy said imperiously, "Aegeus Lovegood is somewhere on the property. Find him and bring him to me."

"Yes ma'am." And with that he disappeared again in a puff of smoke.

Mrs Malfoy turned to Narcissa. "Take the girl to one of the bedrooms. I don't want her underfoot with so many people in the house. Leave her there and then come down, dear."

Narcissa did as she was told, guiding Hermione up the back staircase. Draco followed closely behind, staying just out of reach. The witch led them to Lucius's room, the same room that would one day be Draco's. His father's room didn't look much different than what his own had looked like — would look like. It had the same green and silver scheme, with Quidditch magazines everywhere, and posters of Quidditch players on the walls. That was the same bed he had slept in for years, the same desk where he had studied over the holidays, and the same sofa where Narcissa had sat with him, telling him the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

That's where his mother sat now with Hermione, helping the girl get out of her heavy coat.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Hermione shook her head. "Well, why don't you take a nap, and I'll come to check on you in a little while?"

Draco did not move from where he was when Narcissa left the room. He had tried for so long to break that blasted curse, that it had not occurred to him until now that maybe he didn't want it broken. Everyone he had ever loved was dead, and Malfoy Manor would never again look as grand, as permanent or as alive as it did now.

Feeling a soft hand on his, he looked down at a very contrite Hermione.

"I did not mean for them to see me," she said. "It was an accident. I promise."

"I believe you," he said, shaken out of his musings. He knew better. Stay around long enough and he would simply watch it all crash and burn a second time. "We need to get out of here." He looked around. He had always kept his broom in his bedroom, but apparently his father had felt no such need, for there was not a single one in sight.

While Hermione put on her coat and grabbed her backpack, Draco walked up to the enormous fireplace on the far wall. There was a fire burning, but that did not worry him.

"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper," he whispered, willing the passage open. Hermione gasped behind him when the flames turned blue, and the heavy stone wall at the back of the fireplace slid to the side, revealing a dark opening. "In we go," he said, holding out a hand to Hermione. Hesitating for only a second, the witch took the offered hand. They were just at the entrance when a sudden pop made them look back.

A house-elf had just Apparated, holding a tray with food. The creature shrieked and dropped the tray. "You can't go in there," she said indignantly. "Intruders! Intruders in the Manor!"

Draco cast a silencing spell on the house-elf — Misty, if memory served — and pushed Hermione forward, sealing the passage behind them. Everything was dark inside, but he didn't need any light to find his way. He had roamed those passages from a small boy; he knew where he was going. They emerged at the back of the house, walking out of a passage hidden under a staircase. Unfortunately, they were not alone. The house-elves could not go into the secret passages that connected much of the Manor to the outside, but they knew where the exits were.

Misty had called for reinforcements, and there were at least half a dozen house-elves. Hermione screamed when a spell whizzed right past her head, but it was the last one that got that close. Draco shielded them both and blasted his way past the annoying half-breeds. House-elves were small and weak by wizard standards, but they were made of magic in a way humans were not, and they were incredibly resilient. Much as Draco tried, he couldn't shake them off.

He pushed Hermione inside the shed and closed the door behind them, magically locking it. It wouldn't hold the little pests off for long, but it would hold them off long enough.

He ran to the far wall, where a dozen brooms were lined up neatly. They were old models — old by his standards; he was sure his father would have owned nothing but the best. What he wouldn't give to have his Nimbus 2001 at hand. He picked out a Nimbus 1000, the best one there, and ransacked the chest in the corner for an extra seat. Just then, the house-elves blasted the door open. Hastily grabbing Hermione, Draco sat her in front of him on the broom. He cast a barrage of stuns towards the door before blowing up the roof and kicking his feet against the ground, taking off.

Hermione shrieked and lunged forward, holding on to the broom as if her life depended on it. He placed an arm around her waist, ordering her to sit still or she would get them both killed. The house-elves were still trying to catch them, casting stuns and jinxes into the air. But even after so long without practising, Draco was still an excellent flier — one of the youngest seekers ever to play at Hogwarts — and he evaded them easily enough.


	6. Hogwarts

They flew most of the night. It was bitterly cold up in the air, and Hermione could not avoid whimpering every time she opened her eyes and looked down. Draco was elated, however. He had forgotten the exhilarating feeling of riding a broom, with nothing around him but sky and air. It was a feeling that spoke of freedom and endless possibilities, of a world big enough and wide enough to get lost in.

The sun was just coming up when they saw Hogwarts in the distance. The light hugged the dark stone walls of the castle, travelling up the towers and over the fields. The whole area was covered in snow, which shone in the morning light, giving it an otherworldly glow. Draco's throat tightened when his eyes fell on the Astronomy Tower. Hogwarts had been home too, but he could never look upon it now without seeing flames and broken bodies.

He pushed the feeling away, angling them towards Hogsmeade. There were wards around the castle, and he doubted they would let him in. There was older and deeper magic there than anywhere else in Britain, and those stones knew their friends. In this world or in any other, he did not think the castle would be in a mood to indulge him. No matter. There were other ways in.

During his seventh year at Hogwarts, the Carrow siblings had hunted down and destroyed most of the secret passages leading into the castle. He had seen the list in Professor Snape's study. He knew where they were and where they led. He was sure he could sneak them in with little difficulty.

Hogsmeade was overflowing with Christmas shoppers, even that early in the morning. There were people everywhere, crowding the sidewalks and wandering in and out of stores, all of them loud, colourful and over-the-top. Hermione stared unabashedly at the wizards and witches, with their bright robes and pointy hats. Draco wished he could've shown her Diagon Alley; Hogsmeade was fairly tame by comparison.

Hermione's eyes shone brightly when they entered Honeydukes, and Draco couldn't help smiling at her delighted expression. They were surrounded by colourful piles of sweets, fountains of chocolate, wandering chocolate frogs and even candy-made wands.

He pocketed what he could get his hands on without drawing too much attention, certain that the witch would like to try some, and more than eager to indulge his own taste for sugary things.

Trying to avoid bumping into anyone and causing a panic, he led Hermione to the back. They didn't have any trouble sneaking into the cellar. The store was too full of people for anyone to pay any mind to a random seven-year-old, and he — well, he was invisible.

It took him two minutes to locate the trap-door and another one to find an oil lamp stacked behind a pile of boxes. It cast less light than a wand would, but beggars couldn't be choosers. The passageway started out as a narrow staircase, steep and slippery, but after about ten minutes they landed on a planer path that twisted and turned, until Draco wasn't sure which direction they were going. There was only the one path, however, so he was sure they must be going the right way.

He shared his bounty with the witch, who was less than impressed with his method of obtaining it.

"That's stealing," she said disapprovingly, smelling the box of _Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans_.

"It's borrowing," he said, biting into one and making a face. It was tripe.

"Do you intend to take them back or pay for them?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then it's stealing."

Draco lowered his head just in time to avoid banging it against a lower section of the ceiling. At four feet tall, Hermione had no such problems.

"Does that mean you don't want any?" He stole back the box of Every Flavour Beans.

Hermione stopped and peered into the pocket where he kept all his spoils.

"I want a chocolate frog," she said, looking equally innocent and shameless.

They had been walking for almost an hour when they reached the end of the path. There was a huge block of stone on the way, and Draco realised the flaw inherent in his plan. This particular passage was covered by the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, and the stone was too heavy for him to be able to listen if there was anyone on the other side. Well, there was no helping it now.

"You need to leave your backpack here," he said, inspecting the girl. She needed robes. It wouldn't fool anyone who looked closely enough, but it was all he could do. He snapped his fingers and her Muggle clothes turned into Hogwarts robes. Slytherin, because it amused him. "If anyone asks," he said, "you're eleven years old."

"All right," she said, standing very straight as if to make herself taller.

Draco leaned his ear against the stone, trying to listen — a futile and foolish gesture, but he made it all the same. Failing to hear anything — an unexpected and shocking result — he whispered "Dissendium" and the stone slid to the side.

As luck would have it, the corridor outside was empty. He ushered Hermione in, and the statue was just returning to its place when a young Gryffindor turned the corner.

The dark-haired youngster stopped and stared at the moving statue and then at Hermione. Draco rolled his eyes, aggravated. Of all the students at Hogwarts, it was just his luck to come across this one.

"What was that?" he asked, moving towards Hermione without looking away from the statue.

"You didn't see anything," Draco said to Hermione, "you don't know anything, and you're in a hurry."

"What was what?" the witch asked innocently.

"The statue." He placed a hand on the cold stone, as if trying to push it. "It moved."

"Did it? How odd. Well, I have to go now." Hermione turned to go, but the boy grabbed her arm.

"Hold on, you're too young to go here."

"Am not!" she said, indignantly. "I'm eleven."

"You can't be eleven._ I'm_ eleven. You're tiny."

Draco sighed, feeling a headache coming. No matter the generation, Gryffindors were nothing but meddlesome tossers who couldn't mind their own bloody business. Hermione was just giving the boy a piece of her mind on the rudeness of going around commenting on people's height, when a second boy turned the corner.

"James," he called. "Remus found it. Come on."

"Sirius, the statue moved," he said, pointing at the very still Gunhilda.

"So?" the other boy asked. "Everything moves in this place. Stop messing around with Slytherins and move it, Potter." And with that, he disappeared again.

James shrugged. "I'll figure it out eventually," he said, winking at Hermione. "See you around, shorty."

Hermione glared at the boy while Draco counted his blessings. Getting rid of the son had never been that easy.

Draco picked his way with care, trying to retrace his steps to the room where he had found the mirror. But seven years was a long time, and like Black had pointed out, everything moved in that place. Hermione didn't mind the walking around. The witch stared fascinated at the moving staircases, at the talkative portraits, and at the ghosts who roamed the halls. It was winter break, so there weren't a lot of students around, and those they came across were utterly uninterested in the small Slytherin girl.

The wizard tried to control his growing sense of panic. What if he couldn't find the mirror? What if he could and nothing happened? And if the curse was broken, then what? Back into a war in which he had no stakes left. There were no good choices. That almost seemed like a theme in his life.

The moment they turned another corner, he stopped in his tracks. Dumbledore and McGonagall were walking their way, engaged in conversation. Draco held his breath, images of the last time he had seen the wizard alive flashing before his eyes. Dumbledore glanced distractedly at Hermione before shifting his glance to Draco. He looked straight at him.

"I'll say, Minerva," he said conversationally without looking away, "first years look smaller and smaller each year."

And then they had walked past them. Draco stayed where he stood, shaken and struggling to breathe.

"Draco?" Hermione said, pulling on his cloak. "That man saw you."

Draco pushed her away and dove into an empty classroom, suddenly feeling exposed. He tugged at his collar, trying to loosen it, desperately trying to breathe. Digging his nails into his palm, he struggled to focus. It had been years since he had had a panic attack; he thought he was over it.

"Draco," Hermione said concerned, putting a hand on his arm, "are you okay?"

"Give me a bloody second," he snapped, pulling away. He fell to the ground, sitting with his back against the wall, focusing on the difficult task of getting his breathing under control. It felt like ages, but it was probably no more than a few minutes. Little by little, his heart rate slowed down, and breathing went from hard to commonplace once again.

He glanced around the empty classroom. Hermione was standing in a corner, close to tears.

"I'm sorry I yelled," he said, hand outstretched towards the girl. She ran across the room and threw her arms around his neck. "I didn't mean to scare you, Hermione," he said, hugging her back. "I'm sorry."

"Who was that man?" she asked.

"Someone I hurt a very long time ago." That was putting it mildly, but it was a complicated story.

"Like I hurt Peter?"

"Kind of like you hurt Peter, yes." If Peter had been one of the most powerful wizards who had ever lived and his death had plunged the wizarding world into chaos.

"I know what that's like," she said very serious. "But he seems fine, and I'm sure you didn't mean to. You're sorry and that's what matters."

Was it? Hermione had hurt a snotty brat; Draco had started a war. There was no amount of being sorry that would ever make up for that. And he wasn't even sure that he was. Sorry. Not always. Not often. Most times he just didn't think about it. He followed what orders were issued to him, and he completed the assignments that needed completing, like a good Death Eater. Not having a conscience was easy, as long as one did not think too much about it.

"How would you like to stay here, Hermione?" he asked, because it was an idea he hadn't been able to shake. There was nothing but war and death waiting for them on the other side of the looking glass. Was half a life better than no life at all?

"Here in Hogwarts, you mean?" she asked, frowning.

"Yes. You could have classes with other children who are just like you, and you could learn how to control your powers."

The witch thought for a second, but shook her head. "Mummy and daddy wouldn't like that at all. They don't like the things I do. Not even the things that don't hurt anyone. They wouldn't like it."

Draco nodded. It was a bad idea — for many reasons — but he had to ask. Now all that was left was for him to find the blasted mirror. And knowing Hogwarts, the castle could play hide and seek with the bloody thing for the next century. He frowned, trying to think, and then it hit him. He didn't need to look for the mirror, he just needed to require it.

* * *

Hermione hurried her step, trying not to lose Draco in the labyrinth of corridors. He would do well to remember that her legs weren't the size of his. She sighed, exasperated, rolling her eyes at the inconsistency of male tempers. Not five minutes ago, he was a picture of gloom. Now he was a man on a mission, all of him purpose and manic excitement. They had gone up several flights of stairs — magical stairs, that moved and moved until she didn't know which way they were going — and were now, by her estimate, on the seventh floor. He finally stopped before an empty wall, smiling the smile of someone who had just struck gold.

Ordering her to stand to the side, very still, he walked back and forth three times, muttering something indiscernible under his breath. Hermione had seen flying broomsticks, moving staircases and chocolate frogs that hopped around on their own, but she was still amazed by the sudden appearance of a door on the empty wall.

When they walked in, the room was empty except for a mirror in the centre of it. It was an old-fashioned mirror, grand and heavy, with strange words written around the wooden frame. Draco stayed away from it, but Hermione walked up to the mirror, drawn by the soft glow emanating from it.

She looked at the reflective surface and a stranger looked back. The older woman had brown eyes just like hers, bushy brown hair that resembled hers, freckles in the same places, and eyebrows shaped just the same. Two men walked into the frame, hugging the smiling woman. One of them had glasses and very messy dark hair, like the boy she had just met, and the other man had bright red hair and lots of freckles.

Other people started walking into the frame. There was a very blond woman with a strangely-shaped necklace, and a goofy-looking man that smiled adoringly at her. An older ginger woman held the hand of an older man with hair just as red. There was a woman with pink hair, holding a little boy whose hair was bright green. Other people kept arriving, trying to fit into the frame. So many people. All of them happy and smiling, waving at the witch.

Hermione strangled a sob when her eyes fell on the twins. Fred had been the first to fall, but he hadn't been the last. Luna had died right at the beginning of the war, trying to reach her father's house. Neville had died on the assault of Malfoy Manor, and so had Seamus and Colin. Ron… Ron had died at Hogwarts, on the first of too many skirmishes that accomplished nothing and always resulted in too many casualties. So many dead. There were so many dead.

Hermione glanced down at her hands, seeing them through tear-filled eyes. They were no longer the hands of a little girl, but her own.

Startled by movement behind her, Hermione jumped to her feet, her hand flying to the place where she usually kept her wand.

"No need to be skittish, Granger," Malfoy sneered. "If I meant to hurt you, I'd have done it when you were four feet tall."

"You tricked me," she said, her words dripping with loathing. "Her, you tricked her."

"Should I have tried to explain all this mess to a seven-year-old?" He was standing between her and the door, something Hermione was sure was not accidental. "I needed to get you here, and I did. You should be thankful I was so polite about it."

"I'm all gratefulness, Malfoy," she scorned. "What do you want?"

"I want you to break the curse, obviously."

"And if I don't?"

Malfoy laughed, an unpleasant, humourless laugh. "Are you that fond of being seven? A Mudblood to our people and a freak to your own?"

Hermione bit her lip, willing her tears not to fall. He was a loathsome, horrid man, but his point was not lost on her. He deserved to burn in the deepest pits of hell, but she didn't care to burn with him. "Fine," she said at last. "I'll do it."

"Good girl," he mocked. "Though, satisfy my curiosity. What was the spell?"

She didn't answer straight away. She was not proud of it. She was not proud of the spell she had used, and she was not proud that she had let him goad her into using it. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Crucio. It was the Cruciatus Curse."

Malfoy laughed. "So much for the moral high ground."

Hermione turned to the mirror, trying to focus. Her head was heavy with too many thoughts and too much pain from things she had rather not have remembered. And somewhere in there, there was also the little girl who still thought him wonderful. There was something to be said for ignorance and bliss.

"Finite incantatem."


	7. The Cellar

Her head was heavy and full of cotton, and when she opened her eyes, the light was so bright that it hurt. She closed them again, frowning. Why was light so bright? She didn't remember it being so bright.

"Harry," someone yelled far too loudly. "She's awake! Quickly, she's awake."

Gentle hands lifted her head, and someone touched a glass of water to her dry lips. She was parched, but her throat could not cope with more than a drop of water before she started coughing.

"Easy, Hermione," Harry said softly, moving the glass away. "It's okay. You just rest. We're here."

It wasn't long before she drifted off again.

* * *

Ginny pulled a chair closer to the bed and placed a napkin on Hermione's lap.

"I can feed myself, you know?" said the older woman, tired of being fussed over.

"Just enjoy it while you can," Ginny said. "Next week they'll have you back doing chores and on mission rotation. Ah, how I long for a life of leisure."

"I'd settle for a life with proper food. What do you call that?" Hermione tried to smell the concoction she was being fed, but quickly regretted the impulse.

"Some sort of French thing." Ginny led the spoon to Hermione's mouth. "Fleur said it's good to regain health."

Hermione made a face but swallowed it anyway. The flavour was… unusual. "I suppose that what doesn't kill me must make me stronger." After a few minutes in silence, she finally brought herself to ask what she had wanted to know for days. "Whatever happened to Malfoy?"

"They caught him when they found you." Another spoonful of that vile soup. "He's down in the cellar, awake as well. Moody and Dean have been trying to get some information out of him."

"What kind of information?" Hermione asked, starting to feel queasy.

Ginny shrugged. "He's high up on their hierarchy. I'm sure he knows all manner of useful things."

* * *

Everything was dark and still in the manor. There were guards posted outside, but nothing moved between the heavy walls of the old Malfoy estate. Hermione chose her way carefully, trying not to bump into anything or anyone. Knowing that what she was doing was a bad idea did not stop her doing it.

The cellar door had no keyhole and no latch. Magic kept it closed, and there were more wards on it than Hermione had ever seen anywhere else. They fulfilled the dual role of keeping people out while also keeping people in. There was a very select number of people who could walk past those wards, and Hermione was one of them. Being part of the Golden Trio — was it now a Golden Duo? — had its perks.

She didn't have to look very hard to find the wizard. He was chained to the far wall, his hair matted with blood, and his face a collection of cuts and bruises. The cellar was empty except for him. The Order of the Phoenix kept no prisoners — not for long. Bodies still hung from the gallows on the front lawn, swinging gently in the cold night air.

Draco struggled to sit up straighter when she approached, his chains clanging too loudly against the stone floor. He tried to open his eyes, but his left eye was almost completely swollen shut.

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire, aye Granger?" His voice was low and strained. "Not invisible anymore."

Without replying, Hermione vanished the manacles that kept his arms and legs chained. Then, without giving herself time to regret it, she knelt beside him and pressed the Hawthorn wand against his hand. That seemed to get his attention.

"This is a terrible, terrible idea, Granger," he warned, wrapping his fingers around it.

Didn't she know it? "We can't go out through the door," she said, helping him up. "I trust there's another way out?"

He smirked as only he could. "Obviously."

The smirk turned to a grimace as he shifted his body weight to his right side, but once he started moving, he did not stop. Malfoy made for the south corner of the room, where the ceiling dropped at an angle. He whispered an incantation and four blocks of stone slid to the side, revealing an opening. "Ladies first," he said, waiting for her to join him.

Hermione pushed away whatever scruples she still had and carefully made her way down the passage with Malfoy close behind her, his breathing strained and his steps unsteady.

She put one foot in front of the other, willing herself to keep moving even as her brain kept going over all the reasons why she should stop. He and people like him had started this war. He and people like him had tortured and maimed and killed their way across Britain, destroying everything in their path. He and people like him had deemed it preferable to set the world on fire than to just live in it with her and people like her.

And yet here she was, trying to get him away from the flames.

He was a monster, and she was a traitor, and maybe they both belonged on the gallows outside, two more rotting corpses for the ravens to peck on.

Hermione looked over her shoulder and stopped, waiting for Malfoy to catch up. The wizard moved with difficulty, an arm wrapped protectively around his torso, and one leg dragging slightly against the floor. They were being too slow. They were being far too slow.

"We need to hurry," she said.

Malfoy leaned heavily against a wall, trying to regain his breath. "Had I but known there was a grand escape in tonight's programme," he said, "I'd have been more rested."

Trying hard to suppress her frustration, Hermione walked up to him and made to touch his robes, but with a swiftness she had not thought him capable of, Malfoy put his wand between them.

"If I meant to hurt you," she said, "I'd have done it when you were chained to a wall."

His expression was unreadable, and for a moment Hermione thought he wouldn't lower his wand. He finally did, however, closing his eyes with a sigh and leaning his head back against the wall.

She did not know exactly what Dean and Moody had done to him, nor did she want to know. War made barbarians of them all, and she had enough things keeping her up at night. But she couldn't fix what she couldn't see. Draco stifled a groan when she touched his side, running her fingers along his rib cage. She could do nothing about the leg, but she could handle a few cracked ribs and hope there was nothing else wrong internally.

Malfoy's shoulders relaxed while she worked her magic, and his breathing became less strained. These were spells she knew like the back of her hand. Spells that put back together what other spells had torn apart. They had fallen short too often, but on this occasion they were up to the task.

"Come on," she said when she was done, putting his arm around her shoulders for support. "We either hurry out or we're not getting out."

The closeness felt disturbingly familiar, and Hermione struggled to focus on the path ahead, trying hard to ignore the knot in her throat.

They walked for a very long time, but finally surfaced in the middle of a field. The sky was clear and nothing stirred in the snow-covered landscape.

"These are no longer Malfoy lands," Draco said, looking around. "We're past their wards."

Hermione nodded, crossing her arms for warmth. It was done. "You've got your freedom," she said. "Have a nice life." She turned to go, but stopped again at the sound of his voice.

"Why do it?" he asked. "Why get me out?"

Against her better judgement, she turned to face him. Under the soft glow of the moon, surrounded by the snow-covered field, the little girl inside her recognised him as the friend she had lost, and it was all she could do to keep her voice steady.

"Does it matter?" She had no answers for him. She had no answers for herself. "Just go before someone notices you're missing."

Malfoy didn't move. "Come with me," he said as if it was the most natural suggestion in the world.

Her laughter sounded bitter to her own ears. "And go where? Where do a Death Eater and a Mudblood go to hide?"

"It's a big world, Granger."

"It's not that big." Even if she wished it was. "And I can't go." Even if she wished she could.

"They'll never understand it," he said. "They'll never forgive it either."

It was just as it should be. She would never understand or forgive it herself.

"Just go," she repeated, dangerously close to tears. "Please."

He moved closer to her and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Take care of yourself, Hermione."

And just like that, the last of her defences crumbled and she broke down crying. She could have hit herself for it. He was no friend of hers, not really. She had no reason to cry. But in some strange, twisted way, she felt his loss. She had felt it ever since that day in the Room of Requirement. Because somewhere deep inside of her lived the little girl he had once played with, and comforted, and kept safe. And that little girl missed him. She missed him more than she could say.

Draco pulled her to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her. He felt warm and familiar, and she held on to him as if to keep from drowning. She had lost so many friends to the war, so many people she loved. She couldn't bear to lose anyone else.

Draco let her cry, giving her the time she needed to grieve for him.

"Come with me," he repeated softly.

But it was not that simple. Hermione kissed him on the cheek before taking a step back.

"Goodbye, Draco," she said with a strained smile.

"Goodbye, Hermione."

And with that, he Disapparated.

*****The End*****


End file.
